How to Date Your Flatmate
by freezerjerky
Summary: John navigates the ins and outs of dating the man he already lives with.
1. Chapter 1

**Quickly establish just how fast or slow you want the relationship to go. It's often hard to keep your hands off the person you're dating if they live in the same flat. It's even harder (no pun intended) if they can easily tell whenever you're feeling, well, interested. Just remember, you can say no to sex, even if your relationship started because you shagged in your lounge after an adrenaline fueled run through the city chasing a dog walker/murder suspect.**

The shower had just reached optimal temperature and John had just taken himself in hand when he heard the door open and feet not so quietly shuffling into the room.

"I locked the door for a reason," he gritted.

"Once you've breached more than one of someone else's orifices, they're allowed to walk in on you in the bathroom."

"You're not joining me, Sherlock."

"It's water conservation, and I thought I might help you with your erection."

"That counts as sex. I thought we agreed on this."

"Six dates is absurd. Most popular woman's magazines dictate three or four dates is enough as is, and that's with men who are relative strangers before dating."

"We'll talk about this later. Go."

"Just kissing?"

"No."

"Can I watch?"

"If you're here, it counts."

John shuffled into the kitchen, hair still damp, wearing only his pajama pants and a content smile. Sherlock was seated at the table, prodding some mould samples and looking exceptionally cross.

"You do know why I want to wait, right?" John began.

He sat down across the table from his flatmate, where there was, surprisingly, a cup of tea waiting for him.

"You're worried our relationship will become strictly physical, which is absolutely rubbish. We've had a relationship for quite some time now."

"Friendship is not the same as dating," John corrected. "Thanks for the tea, by the way. Didn't know you could make it."

"It's simple enough."

"Try it more often, then. We get on, that's all we know. I don't know if you like to hold hands in public or cuddling on the couch or how you feel about anniversaries. They're little things, but they're important. Sex complicates things, it moves relationships at a faster pace."

"Your notions are idiotic. There's no reason for you to masturbate in the shower when you have a willing partner living with you."

"And that's it," John stated. "We live together. We're best mates. Once is one thing, but if we start shagging regularly before we know for sure that we're compatible in that way, it'll ruin a lot of things. Six dates isn't that many, honestly."

"We've gone on two," Sherlock scowled. "It has been two weeks. Your libido is more active than mine, I don't know why we're doing this if you're punishing yourself as well."

"It'll be the same as before, we handled that, but now we can acknowledge that we're going somewhere with this."

Sherlock glared at him from across the table and continued prodding the mould. Silently, John rose out of his seat and walked over to his flatmate, grabbing his chair and moving it so it was facing him. The petri dishes on the table clattered. John smirked as he sunk down on the other man's lap.

"You've ruined my experiment," Sherlock pouted.

"Stop being such a child. I forgot to mention the part where I'd very much so like to take you up on the kissing offer from earlier."

"Oh."

They pressed their foreheads together, John suppressing a giggle for a few brief moments. He started the kiss, the almost chaste meeting of two mouths. The second one proved awkward, both attempting to use tongues at almost the same moment, but then settling into some sort of rhythm. John's hands tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair while Sherlock's hands busied themselves exploring every inch of exposed flesh they could without passing over some unseen barrier. The kiss deepened, becoming a delicious movement of teeth and tongues until Sherlock moaned and John realized he had begun unbuttoning his flatmate's shirt. John pulled away, forcing himself to frown.

"Controlled kissing," he panted. "It's like an experiment, yeah?"

**Furthermore, set aside guidelines as to what constitutes as dating and what are normal activities. Cuddling on the sofa does not necessarily count as an impromptu date. Also, normal flatmate activities shouldn't be considered proper dates. (It's up to you to decide if dates interrupted by trips to crime scenes count.)**

John watched as Sherlock practically sprinted up the stairs, the bags in his hands rustling as he made it up the seventeen steps. He grinned to himself as he headed up, not quite matching his pace, but with a sort of joy people shouldn't feel just because their flatmate bothered to go shopping with them.

"I think this is the first time you've ever been to the store with me," John said as he placed his bags on the table.

"It's not that difficult to do the shopping," Sherlock scoffed. He had already deposited his bags and positioned himself near the fridge, likely in an attempt to be in John's way as much as possible.

"I like the company sometimes. You should help me more often."

"Does this count for you?"

"As a date?" John asked, holding a head of lettuce. "No, it's errands."

"Yes, but we went out together and we enjoyed each other's company. That seems close enough to your previously stated definition of a date."

"If I counted every time we had a giggle in public as a date, we'd have shagged within the first two weeks of living together."

"Well why didn't you then?"

"Because it's not- this is normal flatmate things. We should have been doing this the whole time."

John opened the fridge door, carefully inspecting the contents for the safest place to put the lettuce.

"Not unlike the sex you continue to deny us," Sherlock stated.

Without replying, John closed the refrigerator door and raised himself on tip toe to give the other man a small, hopeful kiss.

"Is that aftershave I smell? Then I'll count this as a quarter of a date."

He giggled and then nestled his head against Sherlock's neck, planting delicate kisses and softly humming to himself.

**Don't forget what your responsibilities as a flatmate are. Someone picks up the tab at a restaurant when you're dating but that doesn't mean one of you should be solely responsible for the heating bill. Also, you can't let housekeeping slide just because the person you're living with happens to be quite infatuated with you.**

"I'm going to freeze my bollocks off," John exclaimed. "It's so cold."

He made his way into the kitchen, bare feet feeling frozen on the floor. Tea was the only clear solution he could think of for this particular problem. He pulled down two mugs and put the kettle on.

"I'd prefer if you didn't," Sherlock commented, following behind him. "I'm quite fond of the idea of you being fully intact. Good morning."

Sherlock pressed himself along John's back, attempting to wrap the ends of his dressing gown around the increasingly fidgety man.

"Morning," John replied, sounding more relaxed.

"Slept well?"

"Too cold. Did you pay your share of the heating bill?"

"Of course not," Sherlock murmured into John's neck. "I thought you were going to pay this month, since I've been covering all of our dates."

"That's not how this works. You have to pay every month and you have to tell me when you don't ahead of time so I can sleep in peace."

He felt the man behind him shrug and then the soft pressure of kisses along his shoulder as his t-shirt was pulled aside. His toes curled on the cold floor and he couldn't help but smile. Then the kettle hissed and he moved forward. He poured the water into the mugs and deposited a tea bag in each as Sherlock searched for the sugar. As he padded over to the fridge, he cast an appreciative glance over to his flatmate's arse as Sherlock leaned over the table to grab the sugar. He stood with the fridge door open for a few moments before speaking.

"Is that semen next to the butter?"

"Don't worry, it's mine."

"That wasn't really the concern."

**Not everything has to be neatly labeled, but make sure you have some sort of "accepted title" for your flatmate/significant other/delicately ego-ed love interest who needs a surprising amount of affirmation in their personal life.**

John looked over his shoulder, casting one last glance at his Uni friend, who he chanced upon in the street. He had managed to get Sherlock to go to the store with him again and they were walking home, enjoying the night air as best as they could.

"Didn't think I'd ever see him again," he said. "We played rugby together. He was rubbish. I thought he moved to Scotland."

"He did, but he cheated on his wife and she kicked him out. He likely moved to London for better employment opportunities, or to avoid his girlfriend who didn't know he was married," Sherlock mumbled beside him.

"Remember that discussion I had about you deducing my friends?"

"Please, he made everything painfully obvious. Why did you tell him that I'm your flatmate?"

"Because you are," John replied, sounding far more confused than Sherlock thought he should be.

"Yes, but that's the most basic label for our relationship, and not descriptive at all."

"Is this about the friend-colleague thing again?" John asked. "I apologized for that. We're flatmates, that's the easiest way to describe it. Besides."

John held up his left hand, which was firmly clasped in the other man's gloved right hand.

"He's not the only one who made everything painfully obvious," John continued, smiling.

"I'd still like something official. A word that isn't so sterile and inefficient. I like everything categorized."

"That's fine."

"You'd probably object to the term 'partner' this early in the relationship, but 'boyfriend' is too juvenile for my taste."

"Partner is fine," John stated. "I think it sums everything up as nicely as it can. It covers flatmates, friends, even colleagues, and will sound less awkward than lovers."

"I don't know. I quite like lovers, now that you mention it."

**Make sure you get your work done. It's very easy to not get much work done when the most distracting thing in the world lives in the same building as you do. There's really no hope for this. Locking yourself in your room to get something done will not help when you hear explosions in the kitchen or get your lock frequently picked by your partner. **

It was probably nothing, likely just the microwave malfunctioning. Or a pot boiling some odd substance.

"John!"

"I'm trying to work on my blog, can you handle this yourself?"

"This may involve acid."

John practically barrel rolled out of bed, hastily making his way down the stairs. He tripped on the bottom step, half expecting there to be more.

"False alarm," Sherlock announced from the kitchen. "The experiment is going as expected."

"Why are you using my kettle for an experiment?"

"Because I need it, obviously. Why were you blogging in just your pants?"

"I was in my room, alone, peacefully enjoying some quiet time, which between my job, cases, and dating a complete lunatic, I don't get much of."

Sherlock strode out of the kitchen, approaching John and greeting him with a warm kiss.

"You've been up in your room all day. I miss you."

"You lock yourself in your room often too."

"Not since we started this," Sherlock defended.

"I'll come out into the lounge if you promise to not try to distract me."

"You know I don't do commonplace promises, John."

John went back to his room and returned a few minutes later with his laptop and, to Sherlock's dismay, a pair of trousers and jumper on. He settled on the couch, attempting to make himself as comfortable as possible. Sherlock puttered quietly around the kitchen for a few minutes more, casting glances at John every so often. Soon enough, he sat on the opposite end of the sofa, reading some oversized Russian book.

"You're distracting me," John said.

"I'm reading."

"If you're going to distract me by reading, you might as well do it closer to me."

John patted the seat next to him and sent an inviting smile in his flatmate's direction. Within an instant, Sherlock had repositioned himself shoulder to shoulder with John who squeezed his knee before returning to typing.

"You should really learn how to type properly," Sherlock commented, casting him a sidelong glance.

"I know how," John defended.

"You would get your task at hand done a lot sooner so that we could have a nice snog on the sofa."

"I said no distractions, remember?"

"I happen to have evidence that suggests that my kissing ability is quite above the level of being a simple distraction. Perhaps I'm wrong, though."

"Are you attempting at being a tease?"

"Why, John, is it working?"

The laptop clicked shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**6. Sometimes you just have to say "fuck it" to your pre-established flatmate/partner boundaries. Romance is spontaneous and sometimes you both almost get shot by an enraged postal worker with a clubfoot.**

Five and a quarter.

5.25.

John's hand shook as he opened the door. He'd grown used to the mixture of almost dying and being so adrenaline buzzed that he barely noticed it. What he did notice was how much he still needed to convince himself that Sherlock, who was right behind him, was okay. When they were both safely in the flat, with the door closed, the best course of action John could muster was to throw his partner against the wall and kiss every pulse point he could find on his body.

"I changed my mind," he half moaned. "That trip to the store a few weeks back, it counts as one date. Or almost dying counts as three quarters of one. I need you."

He looked up to see the last glimpse of joyful surprise in Sherlock's eyes being overtaken by devilish satisfaction.

"What if I don't want to count all these partial dates?" Sherlock replied.

"Then you can go into your room and do something about your half hard cock," John snipped.

"I've done it before."

"I can do something far, far better."

Sherlock swallowed hard and reached down to grab John's arse.

"Your room or mine?"

"No preference as to which room, as long as you're fucking me in it."

Sherlock took John's hand and pulled him towards his room. Once inside, they shared a heated kiss, tripping over stacks of books and completely demolishing a stack of papers. Both were still in coats, which were fortunately enough easily shrugged out of. John's hands were more under his control as he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock busied himself with attempting to undo John's trousers, completely bypassing his top.

"I thought you weren't even going to count this," John mumbled against Sherlock's mouth.

"Changed my mind."

Sherlock slid John's trousers and pants down in one fluid motion, and they lay at his ankles. John stopped to laugh for a moment, then stepped out of his shoes and socks and crawled on the bed.

"You finish undressing yourself, I'm going to wait here," he commanded, pulling both his jumper and shirt off in one move, sending buttons to unknown locations in the room.

Sherlock pulled his shirt off and cast it aside then began to fumble with his belt. John stared at him intently and began to stroke himself, which stopped Sherlock in his tracks for a few brief moments. By the time he crawled into the bed alongside his partner, they were both fully hard. He climbed on top of John, kissing him briefly before trailing downwards, leaving soft bites on his neck. He paused at his chest and laid his head down briefly to hear the urgent beating of his heart. John watched as two eyes peered out at him from under a mess of dark curls. The other man's lips seemed to be shaping a word, but nothing came out of it and he slid further down, planting one nearly chaste kiss on John's navel and two kiss turned bites on his thighs before taking his cock in his mouth.

"Sh-Sh-," John cried. "That's, you're you're good."

John moved his hands down to Sherlock's head, gripping it very loosely. Sherlock peered up at him briefly then pulled away. Sherlock practically fell out of bed, but gracefully recovered, walking over to his dresser and returning with a small bottle of lube.

"Now where were we?" he said, and promptly began right where he had left off.

"Christ you can't just do that to-"

John paused for a moment as he felt Sherlock's finger sliding inside of him. After a few failed attempts, the digit had located his prostate and John rewarded the effort with a loud moan.

"More."

He felt the second finger slide in, and resisted the urge to slide his body down unto them, mindful of the very generous ministrations being paid to his prick.

"I want, I want," John panted. "I need you inside me."

He looked down again, watching Sherlock gently slide his mouth off of his cock, placing a kiss on the head.

"I want you to come for me, first," Sherlock demanded.

For the third time, Sherlock took John's prick in his mouth, this time moving with more vigor than before. John's hands gripped the sheets tightly, his knuckles growing whiter. He gave a few small thrusts upward, mindful of the source of these wonderful sensations. He felt his release take over, Sherlock was very much so intent on finishing his job and he kept up until John lay nearly boneless and panted his last "fuck."

There is no skin on skin contact for a few moments, after Sherlock pulled away and sat up, and neither could bear it, so John sat up and their lips meet in a sloppy kiss, both moving their mouths as though seeking to devour the other. Sherlock pulled away, reaching for the now open bottle of lube on the bed and slicking his prick. John laid back down and Sherlock placed his legs over his shoulders. He lined himself up and both men held their breath, waiting until he slid in. It was slow at first, until he was fully inside. The stillness broke, and both exhaled. Sherlock started to thrust, tentative at first until each thrust hit John's prostate and made him grip the sheets again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Christ. Sherlock."

"You feel amazing," Sherlock groaned, his voice somehow an octave lower than normal. "You're extraordinary."

They found a rhythm, and soon the more articulate man couldn't manage anything above one syllable at once. (Luckily John was one of those words.) When he felt his own orgasm coming, Sherlock thought of everything he could to stave it off: Mycroft, the periodic table of elements, cataloguing his current experiments. One final look at John's face, glowing in post-orgasmic bliss, visibly enjoying the extra pressure, and attempting to whisper "come for me" and he could not hold off any longer.

He yelled, loudly and then slumped over unto John, who had collected himself enough to remove his legs from his lover's shoulders. After Sherlock had regained his composure, he gently pulled out, and padded off to the bathroom. He returned not a minute later, cleaned up, and tossed a flannel at John who cleaned himself. Before John had time to properly reposition himself, Sherlock threw himself nearly unto his partner, nestling his head on John's right shoulder. John leaned over, pushed aside the sweat dampened fringe from his forehead and kissed him.

"See how this was better than the first time?" John whispered sleepily. "Because we waited, and we know where we stand with each other now."

"I don't see how waiting for sex makes it better," Sherlock scowled at him. "You're sleeping here tonight, I refuse to move."

**When the person you're shagging is your flatmate, it makes it easier to not worry about making noise, since they're normally the person you worry about disturbing. Remember, however, that you also have neighbors. Also one of those neighbors may be your landlady, who despite her age has very good hearing. In other words: volume control.**

Mrs. Hudson brought biscuits up to the flat, holding out the plate to John. He received them with a smile. Sherlock was in the shower, which he had previously been shared with John. However, after the blowjobs and actual washing, Sherlock decided that he needed time to think, so he set John outside and stood in the water afterwards.

"That Sherlock is quite a screamer, eh?" Mrs. Hudson commented, with a wink, before turning to head back downstairs.

**You and your flatmate share spaces, you also share sexual experiences: there tends to be evidence of this around the flat. This can be a problem if this becomes more evident in the common areas, such as the lounge or the kitchen counters or the front hallway. Keep your space as free as possible of any hints of your sex life, because you never know who might drop by for a visit.**

John was about to head upstairs for an afternoon lie in when he heard a polite but firm rap on the door. Before he could properly answer it, Mycroft sauntered in. The visitor sat down in John's chair after giving him a curt greeting.

"I take it as you're here to speak with your brother, yeah?" John asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Whenever he's willing to appease me."

"John!" a rich baritone called from upstairs.

"I'll go get him."

John went upstairs to the source of the voice, which happened to be his bedroom. He was greeted by a very naked Sherlock lying on his bed with a very prominent erection.

"Christ," John exclaimed. "Your brother is downstairs, and you want sex now?"

"I couldn't have predicted that he would show up when I started this endeavor. Kick him out."

"I can't kick him out, he's your brother. You do it."

"I'm naked, John."

"That's not my fault," John replied. "And stop talking so loudly, he can hear us."

"It is entirely your fault," Sherlock huffed, climbing out of bed. "Why else would I be naked in your bed at three in the afternoon on your day off? I have other things I would be doing if it weren't for you."

John shook his head and licked his lips appreciatively as his partner leaned over to pick his dressing gown, which had been the only clothing he bothered with that day, off of the floor.

"You're not going down to talk to Mycroft with a hard on and no trousers."

"Well, you saying his name fairly killed one of those problems," Sherlock commented.

John walked over to his dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a pair of pajama bottoms. Sherlock had taken to keeping clothes in John's room for the nights he climbed out of bed after a usually brief post-coital nap and wanted to do late night experimenting or wandering the streets. (Though John had woken up from more than one nightmare to find Sherlock playing the violin without a stitch of clothing on.) Sherlock grumbled as he accepted the offered clothing and slipped them on under the dressing gown before dramatically making his way to the lounge.

"I'm not interested in any of your cases," he announced. "Now bugger off."

"I know you never actually refuse any of my work for you," Mycroft replied. "I'm here for personal reasons."

"Right, well, I was in the middle of personal matters when you interrupted."

"Personal matters in another man's bedroom?"

John decided that this was one of those meetings where he was better off making tea in the kitchen. There was likely to be blood. Or possibly explosions. Or both.

"You are fully aware of the recent developments in my relationship with John."

"Of course."

They stared at each other for a few minutes in venomous silence. John didn't see them, but he imagined they were conversing in some silent Holmesian language that commoners like him couldn't possibly comprehend. When he entered the lounge with a cup of tea for himself, (he learned quite some time ago that Mycroft rarely stayed long enough to finish a cup and Sherlock never drank tea when he was feeling hostile) they were engaged in what seemed to be a staring contest.

"So what's your business?" John said, leaning against Sherlock's chair and placing his free hand on his shoulder.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, which was odd in itself. He reached, gingerly, lest he contract some deadly Baker Street virus, down into the couch cushion and pulled out a small tube.

"Strawberry flavoured," Sherlock explained. "A bit pedestrian for my taste in general, but some things are classic. John seems to enjoy it enough."

"Oh, well," Mycroft said, recovering quickly enough.

"Thank you for finding it. We lost it two days ago, remember, John?"

Sherlock turned up to John, who was now blushing more than any man of his age should, and flashed him a quick smile.

"We had just bought it at the store and you decided that we should try it ou-"

"Enough," John interjected.

"I came to invite you to a dinner party this Saturday evening," Mycroft stated, standing up. "I will send a car, of course. John is to come as well, so that you don't insult any more diplomats than you have already."

"You do know how invitations work, right?" John asked.

Mycroft replied by giving him a look that could only be interpreted as "you simple fool" followed by a "Good-bye Doctor Watson."

After he left, John climbed up the stairs, muttering something about a nap. Sherlock followed, crawling into bed after him.

"We're not doing that now, alright?" John grimaced.

"I had planned on spending the afternoon ravishing you," Sherlock replied, huffily.

"I'm tired, and what you did down there? It was embarrassing."

"I got rid of him, didn't I?"

"You did, but by divulging information that neither of us wanted shared. You're a genius, you could have thought of other ways."

"it was efficient. It's not like I told him that less than 48 hours ago, you buggered his baby brother in the same chair he was sitting in."

"You were pretty damn close," John chided. "Just don't. I know you don't have any shame, but I do? If we're going to continue doing that, we're going to have to be more careful about how we treat it."

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, John. It was unintentional."

"S'alright."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed the tip of John's nose, then pecked his lips lightly.

"Take your nap," he said as he crawled out of bed. "Thai for supper?"

"Sounds perfect."

**Make sure you have time to yourself. When the person you live with is the person you socialize with the most, you tend to see them for most of your waking hours. When that person also drags you around the entirety of London on a regular basis, it can be tiring to be always in each other's presence. Even if you're rather fond of their surprisingly perfect arse and precise vocabulary.**

"I can't think," Sherlock moaned from on the couch. "The flat is stifling."

"The flat is how it always is," John replied, laying a coffee down on the coffee table. "We were out of tea."

"Of course we were out of tea, you drink approximately 2.85 cups a day."

"And you waste at least two," John retorted.

"I am still consuming far less tea in my day to day life. Could I have some silence?"

"Did you just tell me to shut up?"

"Politely."

"No, telling someone to shut up for nothing more than talking to you in your shared flat where you eat, sleep, watch telly, and have sex with each other is not polite."

"I can't think. I need to think. You think so loudly."

John ignored Sherlock's comments and sat down in his chair, picking up a book that he had left lying alongside of it. He tried to remain quiet, but apparently even the soft noise of pages turning was enough to set off Sherlock, who turned around in a huff.

"Could you just go to your room?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Are you sending me to my room? Because I'm detrimental to your thought process?"

"Yes."

"Firstly, I'm not your child and I've as much right to be here as you do. Secondly, if I'm so bad for your leisurely thoughts on astrophysics or whatever you're thinking about, then why do you even put up with me?"

Sherlock offered no reply.

"Fine. I'm just going to leave. I'll be back sometime tonight, probably."

John rose, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

He didn't return until the next morning. When he came back, Sherlock was pacing the lounge, his dressing gown dramatically flapping behind him and his bare shoulder peering out from where the sleeve had fallen on the left side. Instead of properly acknowledging him, John sunk down on his chair.

"You've been to a pub, then," Sherlock commented. "I texted you."

"You texted me 30 times. I checked them all."

Sherlock sunk down by John's chair, resting his head against John's knee.

"Where did you go after?"

"I met up with Lestrade for a pint or two. Then I met up with some other mates, and I lost track of time. It was late and Lestrade offered to let me sleep on his sofa, since we were closer to his place than here."

"You shouldn't sleep on sofas, you're always sore the day after."

"You should sleep."

"I couldn't."

John reached down with his right hand and laid it gently on Sherlock's messier than usual hair. He began to gently massage Sherlock's scalp, producing something akin to a purr from his partner.

"You were angry when you left," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, but I'm not now, just tired. I get it, and I don't want it to be different. Your mind doesn't work like everyone else's. It's part of the reason why I like you so much. I'm just not used to people being so blunt in relationships."

"I missed you."

"I was hardly gone."

"The sentiment still stands."

**Make sure your relationship is only going as far as you want it, at the pace you want it to. Eventually, should things go well enough, you and your partner will stop being flatmates who happen to be dating to a couple that lives together. Make sure you don't move into this too fast, especially when one of you is in their first serious relationship and doesn't understand the basics of how dating works and the other has severe trust issues.**

There were some set rules from the very beginning. Most of them were broken within the first few weeks. The one absolute rule, however, that stuck was that they only slept in the same bed on the nights they had sex. It was the easiest way to maintain a certain distance that John had found necessary in forging the relationship.

One night, John turned in for the night early, giving Sherlock a chaste good night kiss not long after dinner and wearily treading his way up to his room. He fell into a deep sleep until he was woken by the slight bounce of mattress springs. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock sitting on the side of his bed.

"Not tonight, Sh'lock," he mumbled as he turned over.

"I don't want to-" Sherlock began. "That's not my primary goal. I haven't seen you for six hours, which I find absolutely absurd, seeing as we live together, and I can't sleep."

"Well you see me now."

John managed to sit up.

"I'd like to sleep in your bed tonight, with you."

"We talked about this after we started shagging, yeah?"

"I believe the nature of romantic relationships is that they have to progress in order for them to be successful. I don't sleep very often and I find it increasingly difficult to sleep knowing that you are in the same flat and I'm not with you. It seems illogical at best."

"That's almost romantic," John chuckled. He grabbed Sherlock's hand, and squeezed it gently. "Okay."

Sherlock hurried under the blankets, almost fearful that the invitation would be revoked. John slid back down into the bed and nestled his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Almost timidly, Sherlock took hold of John's arm and put it around his waist, then slid his own arm on top of it, gently cupping John's elbow.

"You smell good," John murmured.

"No aftershave," Sherlock said, suppressing a chuckle.

"No, just you," John replied. "I like this."

"I think it's the best idea I've had in quite some time."


	3. Chapter 3

Bonus chapter from Sherlock's POV.

**The Only Rule That Matters When You Embark on a Romantic/Sexual Relationship With Your Flatmate:**

**Your moderately idiotic flatmate may somehow get the idea that you don't take the relationship as seriously as they do because you seem to push certain ideas a lot sooner and may seem immature at times. However, what they fail to grasp, is that you are incredibly emotionally invested in the venture and you have been overwhelmingly emotionally invested in their life since before you began dating. What you have to remember is that there are three words you may want to say the first night you end up desperately fucking on the sofa, or whenever they kiss your neck, or the first time you intentionally have sex, or even after your first fight, but save them until you can't bear them not knowing.**

Sherlock actually fell soundly asleep the first night he slept in John's bed without having any sort of sex. It was John who woke suddenly through the night first, and it was his sudden movement that woke up his partner. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was John staring intently at him.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock said.

John still occasionally had nightmares. One of the reasons Sherlock wanted to sleep with him every night was to make him feel safe while asleep. He didn't even mind when they left John shaking and sometimes crying. (He did mind that he had reason to believe that none of these dreams had anything to do with Afghanistan.)

"No, just a normal dream," John replied. "You, again."

John rolled over.

"You don't like looking at me?" Sherlock teased.

"I like it too much."

"Oh, it was that kind of dream, then?"

Sherlock slid his arm around his partner's waist and pulled himself closer, until he was lying against his back. He planted a kiss on the scar on the back of his left shoulder. John rarely let him touch it from the front, but he often seized the opportunity to kiss the long since healed exit would.

"We were playing rugby but you kept on going on and on about how bored you were."

"I would be prodigiously bored if I was playing rugby . I'd like to watch you play some day, though."

"I'm complete shite at it anymore. Maybe if you use your big brain to invent a time machine you can go back and watch me play in the past."

"I'll put that on the to-do list."

"I can see it now: solve cold cases, shag John, pester New Scotland Yard, invent time travel."

"Generally shag John would be higher up on the list."

"Damn right."

They both were quiet for a few minutes. Sherlock grabbed John's hand, lacing their fingers together.

"You have such lovely hands," John mused.

That was when it hit Sherlock. He had known it for months, before they had even started, of course. Nothing slipped past his intellect. That moment, though, was the one moment where he couldn't bear keeping it to himself any longer and didn't care about the consequences.

"I love you."

John did not startle as Sherlock thought he might. He did not sit up bolt straight and give him a confused look. Instead, he moved their joined hands up to his lips and kissed the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Same."


End file.
